Heaven Help A Holmes in Need
by DemonClowSorceress
Summary: Sherlock Holmes despises Christmas. So having a serial killer case is actually a good thing to distract the consulting detective. Until a face from his past walks through the door and proceeds to disrupt his life. There's a reason he hates the holidays so much... Rated T for grisly crime and mild bad language.
1. Mycroft's Surprising Guest

******Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock_ at all, but I will lay claim to my OC.**

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**Heaven Help A Holmes in Need**

**By: DemonClowSorceress**

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**Mycroft's Surprising Guest**

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Mycroft Holmes was used to having visitors at all hours of the day. It was one of the inconveniences of holding a minor position in the British government.

But when he walked into his office in the middle of the night to see a young woman sitting behind his desk, he knew this particular visitor had no appointment. She was in his private room in the Diogenes Club, in his personal chair, and without raising a single of his alarms. Just as she always did every time she stopped in.

From the radio out in the Diogenes Club, Mycroft heard the faint strains of a familiar song. "_It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas_..." He smiled wryly as he recalled precisely what day it was. "So it's that time of year again. You're staying for the holiday, I presume?"

"Don't I always?" asked the young woman. Raven-black hair fell to her shoulders in smooth waves, parted to the side and with a sheaf of bangs dropping to curve around her left eye. She had the body of a runway model, the unblemished skin of a porcelain doll, the voice of a fallen angel, and a cleverness that rivaled that of any Holmes.

"You know he won't see you."

Periwinkle blue eyes blinked, glittering with a muted fire that Mycroft found himself missing on the nights he let himself be sentimental. "I have to. He needs me this time."

"It's pointless. You know how he feels about seeing you."

A perfect Cupid's bow curved upwards in a wry smile identical to the one adorning Mycroft's lips. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Myke."

"You know how I despise that nickname," he said in a soft voice.

"And yet you still allow me to call you that."

_So I do. _Leaning on his umbrella, Mycroft gave his guest a thoughtful look. "It is good to see you again."

She rose from his chair with almost boneless grace. The top of her head came to just above his chin - she'd grown again, almost another whole centimeter. "I hope it won't be the last time."

"Isn't that up to you?"

"I've told you that it's up to my bosses how often I can visit." Bouncing up on her tiptoes, the girl pressed a brief kiss to Mycroft's cheek. "Don't work too late tonight, okay Myke? You're not superhuman." With a turn of her heel she spun around him and headed out his office door.

Mycroft shut his eyes and focused on the sound of receding footsteps. The image of his late-night guest was burned into his retinas as the words quietly left his lips. "Welcome home, Tamasin."

And he heard her whisper, "Good to be home, Mycroft."

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**A.N. - So of all the _Sherlock _fanfics I wanted to launch (most are Sherlolly-based) this one stood up and screamed "I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE!" the loudest. Stick around, I've got quite a bit planned for Sherlock, Mycroft, John, and of course, Tamasin!**

**Review please!**


	2. Sherlock's Unexpected Reunion

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock._**

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**Sherlock's Unexpected Reunion**

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It was clear to even the meanest intelligence that Sherlock Holmes disliked Christmas immensely.

John Watson rolled his eyes as the consulting detective glowered at the fake Christmas tree sitting in a corner of the homicide division's bullpen at the Metropolitan Police Service. "Could you ease up? I'm worried you'll set the damn thing on fire if you keep staring at it."

Blinking forcefully, Sherlock tore his gaze from the decorated monstrosity and refocused on the case. It ranked as a rare nine, therefore demanding his full attention. A man had murdered seven young single mothers in recent weeks, leaving their infants and toddlers alive, painting the nursery walls with the mother's blood, and leaving a small bloody rattle behind. The signature was unusual enough to be considered unique, and the brutality of the crime scenes spoke to the killer's rage and hate of his victims. Due to the occurrence of the crimes during December, the press had dubbed him "the Yuletide Killer."

Sherlock scanned all the pertinent details and wrapped his scarf around his neck again. "All right. I'm off."

"Where?" John asked in a weary voice.

"To spread the man's description, of course."

"What description? Lestrade said nobody saw anything."

He gestured to the grisly pictures in exasperation. "The man is clearly almost six feet tall, left-handed, and has a limp in his right leg that resulted from a childhood injury. Honestly John, can't you see anything?"

John barely had enough time to roll his eyes before Sherlock turned up his coat collar and breezed out of the Met, hot on the trail of this newest case.

Unfortunately, this meant he was soon surrounded by a London caught in the grips of Christmas cheer. The garish lights draped over large pine trees in every shopping mall's courtyard. The flashy signs announcing discounts and sales for Christmas presents. The crowds of consumers pushing past each other to get that _perfect present _or _the thing they need right now_. The Santas and reindeer and elves and fake snow cropping up everywhere there was space. Every little bit of seasonal cheer got a full Holmes glare of distaste.

Sherlock Holmes _hated _the Christmas holiday. If he held any sort of regular grip on human emotion, he would even go so far as to say he despised the entire holiday season.

Christmas was when his life had changed forever.

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Coming home to 221B never lost its appeal. After those two years away destroying Moriarty's network, the cozy little flat had become synonymous with "sanctuary" in Sherlock Holmes' mind. Sentimental, but then again, he'd done so much in the name of sentimentality that he could allow himself to think of 221B so fondly.

Hours after leaving the station, Sherlock opened the door to his and John's flat to see the absolute last person he expected to see occupying his armchair. She was sitting in almost his exact "observe and deduce" pose - one leg casually thrown over the other, left arm lying in her lap, right elbow resting on the armrest, her thumb under her chin, index finger at her temple and middle finger across on her lips. Raven hair fell in slightly wind-mussed waves, framing a pair of devastatingly perfect cheekbones and the slim face of an angel. She wore a black blazer over a cherry-red blouse with ruffles at the neckline, with black slacks encasing her long legs and black low-heeled ankle boots with red soles on her feet.

"Took you long enough to get back." Sherlock started at the sound of John's voice from the kitchen. "What happened, got lost? Fought a Russian Cossack again?"

"I was gathering information from my homeless network," he replied tightly, his eyes still fastened on the woman in his chair.

"Hello Sherlock." She smiled and waved with the fingers of her right hand without moving anything else. "Been out searching for clues, then?"

Lowering his voice he demanded, "What are you doing here, Tamasin?"

"Have you forgotten what day it is?"

He _never _forgot the day. "Don't change the subject. Why are you here?"

Periwinkle eyes met his turquoise ones as a small smile tilted up one corner of her mouth. "Because you need me."

"Mycroft sent you."

"You know he has no say in my actions. I answer to higher powers."

Sherlock scoffed, not believing her. "Ridiculous."

"What's ridiculous?" John asked as he walked into the sitting room with a tray of tea and sandwiches. He placed the tray on the table beside him and settled into his squashy armchair. "You should eat. You haven't in a few days."

About to retort, Sherlock stopped when he noticed three teacups on the tray. "Why are there three cups?"

"Mrs. Hudson mentioned she might stop by, so I wanted to be prepared if she did," said John.

"And I declined a cuppa. I ate before I got here." Tamasin shook her head. "But seriously? You aren't eating? You know what that does to your disposition, Locks."

The almost-forgotten pet name made him snap, "I don't need food," at both John and Tamasin. "What I need is to go into my mind palace to sort through the pertinent aspects of the case. Kindly be quiet."

"As you like," John responded. He unfolded his newspaper and started to read. "But seriously, you should eat."

Sherlock stalked over to the couch and flopped down lengthwise, pressed his hands together under his chin, and closed his eyes. He heard Tamasin sigh and lowly mutter, "As always, stubborn as a pig. Some things never change."

"Shut up," he growled.

A rustle of paper told him John had lowered a corner to look at the detective. "You're in a foul mood."

"And you're thinking very loudly. It's annoying. Stop it." Silence reigned over the flat, and Sherlock allowed himself to sink into his mind and begin sifting through the newest clues gathered by his homeless network.

But something made his mind travel down an abandoned corridor of his mind palace, to a room that was tightly sealed and shabby with age and neglect. A room that bore Tamasin's name in tarnished silver letters on the aged door. Sherlock almost opened it, but with a supreme act of will, he forced himself to turn around and return to the brighter, more relevant wing he'd recently made for the Yuletide Killer.

When he came out of his palace several hours later, John was shaking his shoulder and holding out his phone. "Sherlock, it's Lestrade. There's been another killing, in Brixton. He needs you out there immediately."

Sherlock bounced up and went for his Belstaff. "Inform him that we'll be there in less than fifteen minutes."

"Uh, not 'we', you. Tonight's my night with Mary, remember?"

The consulting detective almost cursed his forgetfulness. Of course today was John's night with Mary Morstan, the lovely blonde woman whom John had met and fallen for while Sherlock was 'dead'. A charming enough woman, cleverer than most and quite tolerant of John and Sherlock's adventures. John had reached an arrangement with her, splitting his time between Sherlock and Mary and enforcing this with steadfast loyalty to both sides.

Another voice joined in the conversation. "I can go with you, Locks."

"No!" Sherlock realized how angrily that sounded, and judging from the surprise in John's eyes, he'd assumed it was directed at him. "I _need_ an assistant, John," he insisted.

"Surely you can work with someone else besides me," John said.

"Of course," said Tamasin, standing with the two men and looked up at Sherlock. "I'll go with you. It'll be just like old times."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. It's not an option."

"I'm sure it'll work out fine. It's not like you haven't done it before." The former army doctor grabbed his own jacket and shrugged it on. "I'll see you tomorrow, all right? And eat tonight, damn it." Before Sherlock could argue further, John was out the door and on his way to Mary.

"Bye John! Say hi to Mary for us!" Tamasin called after him. She grinned up at Sherlock and said, "She called while you were thinking. Lovely girl. John's lucky to have her in his life."

"You're not coming with me," he said shortly. "I don't need your help."

"Why?" Tamasin huffed, a petulant look on her beautiful face. "We've done this before. It was fun, wasn't it?"

Sherlock didn't reply, instead focused on pulling on his Belstaff. One arm in, other arm in...

"Sherlock, I'm not going to stay here like a neglected pet. You know that."

Unfortunately, he did. She had always been remarkably stubborn. Sherlock reached over and picked up his scarf, draped it around his neck and tucked the edges under his coat. A small gasp made him glance down at Tamasin. "What?" he asked despite himself.

The petulant expression had been replaced by one of heartfelt surprise. "That's my scarf."

He looked down at the dark blue scarf. "What of it?"

"I'm just...I didn't think you'd kept it."

"It is warm and replacing it would have been tedious. It has nothing to do with sentiment."

A puzzled frown pulled her lips downward. "What's wrong with sentiment?"

Instead of answering, he drew his coat closed and strode out of 221B without a backwards glance. Of course, Tamasin followed him.

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**Sherlock is such a child. It's one of the reasons we love him, though.**

**Review please! I'd love to know what you all think!**


	3. The Mother and Child Slaying

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock._**

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**The Mother and Child Slaying**

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The cab ride to Brixton was so quiet it neared on suffocating. Sherlock refused to look over at Tamasin, who was leaning against the window glass and silently watching London whiz by. Her presence was a distraction of the worst sort, bringing back old memories from deep within his mind palace and making him jittery and cross. Exactly what he did not need right now.

"You could at least _pretend _that it'll be nice working with each other again."

_That _made Sherlock shoot a glare at Tamasin. A grimace made his own lips twist angrily as he turned away to glare out his own window. Silence had always served as an adequate buffer against meaningless small talk.

"You're really going to ignore me, aren't you?"

Never turning back to her, Sherlock curtly nodded.

"For the love of God, Locks - "

"Don't call me that." The low growl that escaped through his gritted teeth startled Sherlock, and judging by the way the cabbie tensed up, he was scaring the cabbie as well. He forced his voice back to a neutral tone as he stated, "You lost the right to call me that years ago, Tamasin."

"You used to call me Tam. You and Myke both." She sounded hurt, confused and somewhat curious. "Why don't you call me that anymore?"

Sherlock was spared an answer when the cab rolled to a stop at the address of the crime scene. Throwing the cabbie his fare, he got out of the cab and slammed the door behind him before Tamasin could follow him out. Not that it mattered - he still heard her quick footsteps click-clicking over the curb as she hurried to catch up with him.

Lestrade was waiting for him just inside the doorway. Sherlock immediately deduced that this scene was particularly gruesome - the Detective Inspector's face was the pale color of moldy old cheese, and he rarely let the job get to him anymore. "What is different?" asked Sherlock.

"There's another body."

Again Sherlock made the obvious deduction. "The child."

"Christ," breathed Tamasin. "He's never killed a kid before."

Lestrade nodded, his Adam's apple working to swallow the bile. "Little tyke, couldn't be more than a year and a half old. Jesus Christ, it's a bloody mess in there."

"Show me."

The three headed up the stairs to the second floor. Crime scene techs were busy collecting evidence from the hallway outside the nursery and the other rooms, but Sherlock focused all his attention on the approaching door.

Lestrade hadn't been kidding. The room was awash with blood, soaked in the carpet and splashed on the walls and smeared across the furniture. The bodies had already been removed, leaving only their outlines in tape and the evidence markers identifying handprints, possible murder weapons (all wrong assumptions), and the rattle left behind by the killer.

Sherlock kneeled beside the outlines of the two victims, his magnifying glass out and scanning the edges of the blood-soaked carpet. "Something must have happened to make him change his M.O. He's never mutilated the child before, and certainly never exhibited the urge to dissect his victims so completely. But he still left the rattle, why? Oh, this is getting very interesting, something's made him get sloppy..."

"Sherlock." Tamasin's soft voice interrupted his ramblings as smoothly as a ceramic knife slicing through cheese. "Remember what you're talking about. It's a dead child, not a frog in science class."

He shook his head slightly and plowed on. "...Which means something about this mother and child made him angrier than his previous victims. But what? What was different about this child?" He looked over at Lestrade. "Anything interesting about the mother?"

The DI checked his notepad. "Holly Belton, twenty-five. Unmarried, lives alone except for her son Phillip." His voice caught slightly on the boy's name. "No father in the picture, and she's estranged from her parents. Nice girl, according to all the neighbors."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "I said interesting, Lestrade. I've already deduced all of that, including the fact that she regularly worked three jobs and had recently needed to sell her grandmother's ring to make the rent."

A soft squishing noise signaled the approach of someone from behind him. "Something's missing," Tamasin noted.

"What is missing?" Sherlock mused aloud. Turquoise eyes searched around the room. "What else is there? Poor girl, no family, limited income, mostly spent on feeding and clothing the boy. No boyfriend or girlfriend, no sign of a roommate. What is missing?"

Tamasin moved again, closer to the crib. "Something of the boy's."

Against his better judgment, Sherlock looked over to her. And noticed a void in the blood-spattered toys lining the small clothes bureau beside the crib. "Toys. The killer took one of the child's toys."

"Why on earth would he do that?" came a nasally voice from the doorway.

"Ah, Anderson." Plastering on a clearly fake smile, the consulting detective looked at the forensic tech. "Thinking aloud again? Thought you'd learned to kick that nasty habit by now."

The other man scowled. "Talking?"

"No, thinking. You're rubbish at it."

"Sherlock, shut it," Tamasin groaned. "Stop antagonizing the man for being an idiot."

Anderson sputtered in indignation, but Sherlock ignored them both completely. Pulling out his phone, he sent a quick text to Molly Hooper to inform her of the incoming bodies. He would need all the information possible from the corpses as soon as possible, and Molly always reacted badly when children came into her morgue without notice.

"Who are you texting?"

Again he ignored her. A blip came from his phone as Molly's reply arrived. He opened the text to read it.

_Okay. Already combing over previous victims' reports to see if there's anything else that can help us identify the killer. Be safe - xxx Molly_

A small smile lifted the tips of his lips. Molly was undoubtedly the most thorough pathologist at St. Bart's. If anyone could find any overlooked clues, it would be Doctor Molly Hooper.

"Is she cute?"

Sherlock let out a short snarl of irritation and shoved his phone back in his pocket. "How am I expected to concentrate when you continue to interrupt with your asinine prattling?" he snapped at Tamasin.

Standing behind her, Sergeant Donovan sputtered angrily, "Some of us are actually trying to do our jobs, freak."

His eyes remained focused on the crib. "Could've fooled me. Any person of meanest intelligence would have been able to tell that the killer took care of the child first. The mother came in and defended her boy, which precipitated her own demise. Once both were dead, the killer then began taking them apart and using their blood to mark up the walls. Quite eagerly too, you can see the stains where he used the organs as crude paintbrushes to - "

"Too much information, Sherlock."

The tone of Tamasin's voice was clearly telegraphing _VERY NOT GOOD _in big block letters. Sherlock turned back to see more than one officer and tech turning pale from his deductions. Anderson was already out of the room, the sound of retching audible from down the hallway.

Lestrade, taking a shaky breath, managed to strengthen his voice. "Anything you can tell us?"

At a warning glare from Tamasin, Sherlock nodded. "The toy holds a clue to the killer's identity. He wouldn't have taken it otherwise. If we discover what the toy was and who it was from, we could possibly discover a new lead." He briskly brushed past Lestrade and headed back out to the street, Tamasin at his heels. One hand rose to hail a cab.

"So, off to see Doctor Molly Hooper, are we?"

He didn't bother to reply. He knew she knew the answer anyway.

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**Escalation is never a good thing when dealing with a serial killer.**

**Sorry I haven't been updating, the holiday season got me busy. Now hopefully I'll have this updating semi-regularly.**

**Oh, and please review!**


	4. Coffee at Bart's

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Sherlock._**

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**Coffee At Bart's**

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Sherlock gripped the two cups of coffee in his hands tightly, peering through the doors of the morgue. The room was empty save for one Doctor Molly Hooper, hunched over a table reading over several files' worth of autopsy and tox reports. Her back was to the doors, but Sherlock could easily see that her shoulders were trembling in an effort to contain her emotions.

"So, that's Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock glared at the woman standing behind him venomously. "You will not tell her who you are."

"Couldn't if I wanted to. I'm not authorized." Tamasin stuck her hands in the pockets of her peacoat and smirked. "Still, it should be interesting to meet the woman who managed to escape the notice of a criminal mastermind even after he dated her."

Sherlock grimaced as he recalled the whole episode of "Jim from IT" with extreme distaste. Even three years later, knowing that Moriarty had done so much damage to his life and threatened his friends made the detective seethe. "Kindly don't remind me of that."

One of Tamasin's dark eyebrows arched. "Well that got a rise out of you. Is she your girlfriend?"

"Don't be ridiculous. She's my pathologist." Before she could respond, he shoved the door open with his elbow and entered the morgue. "Molly."

Molly jumped in surprise and spun around on her stool, hastily wiping at her cheeks. Sherlock observed their bright sheen but decided not to voice it; drawing attention to her tears always made Molly uncomfortable, and discomfort made her deliver facts more slowly. Speed was of the essence here.

"Sherlock," said Molly, giving him a weak smile. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I did not mean to startle you."

"That's not it. Haven't been sleeping well these last few nights."

As he'd already deduced from the dark circles under her eyes and the weary tone of her voice. He held out one of the coffee cups to her. "White, two sugars."

"How - " she began, then stopped and shook her head with a smile before accepting the coffee gratefully. "Thank you."

"Have you been over the files?"

She nodded. "Yes. As you'd expect, similarities in all the scenes. Young, single mother killed, her blood spread over the room, child left alive, and a bloody rattle left in plain view as a signature. But this newest one..." Her voice trailed off as her eyes drifted to one of the tables. "God, what he did to that little boy..."

"You performed the autopsy," Tamasin guessed.

Now understanding her tears, Sherlock immediately reached for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Molly gave him a brief look of surprise, but it quickly changed into one of focus. "He used different blades. One bears similar characteristics to the one he'd used on the women before, a hunting knife maybe. The one used on the boy was different, smaller and nowhere near as sharp as the first one. If I had to venture a guess, I'd say it was a pocketknife."

"Any drugs used?" asked Sherlock. "Perhaps to restrain the mother or child."

But Molly shook her head. "Tox results for previous victims were clean. I'm waiting on the Belton panels, but I suspect they'll be clean too. However, I did notice something on...on Phillip's neck." Her voice shook slightly on the name, but she quickly pressed on. "There was a shallow cut, as if a knife was pressed against the skin. Maybe the killer used Phillip to force Holly to comply with his demands."

Sherlock started to say, "Why on earth would she do that?" when he heard Tamasin mutter "_Not good_," beneath her breath. "How can you infer this?" he asked instead.

"Because a mother would do anything to keep her child safe. I know I would." Molly glanced back at the covered body, her eyes showing that determined strength Sherlock now knew she held in spades. "If it were me, I'd do whatever he wanted if it would save my child." She glanced at her watch suddenly, giving Sherlock and Tamasin an unobstructed view of the little diamond glittering on her ring finger. "Oh, the panels might be finished now. Do you mind?"

Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt as he prepared some slides for analysis. Molly smiled and headed out of the morgue, and while it may have been only in his mind, the room suddenly seemed much colder after her departure.

Tamasin nodded to herself in approval. "She's a good girl to have, Sherlock. Strong, dependable, honest, and sweet."

"She's engaged," Sherlock said shortly, eyes glued to the slide under his microscope.

"Not to you?" He didn't respond. "Why the hell not? She's perfect for you."

"Shut up."

"Aww, you're so cute when you're trying to avoid the subject."

"Shut. Up. Tam."

She shrugged. "Well, at least you're calling me Tam again." She picked up her peacoat and drew it over her shoulders. "Laters."

"Oh, now you're leaving?" Sherlock drawled sarcastically.

"Of course. You don't need me right now. Besides, I need to report in." Tamasin gave him a peck on the cheek, then headed for the door with a queenly wave.

"Fish and chips when you're done?" he called out.

"I'll text you when I get out. Don't work too hard, Locks," she said, ducking around Molly as the pathologist re-entered the morgue bearing the Beltons' toxicology panels.

Sherlock's retort died in his throat when he saw the plush object in the crook of his pathologist's arms. "What is _that thing?_" he asked Molly.

She smiled fondly at the toy. "It's for Joshua. One of the nurses upstairs gave it to me for him."

"Who?"

"My sister's son. I'm babysitting while she works nights." A fond smile broke over Molly's tired face. "He's such a sweetie, but lord does he bawl when he wants something." She put the toy in her office and returned to Sherlock's side with the tox panels. "Here. As I thought, no trace of anything in Holly or Phillip's bloodstreams."

The consulting detective nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. Molly noticed it right off. "Something the matter?"

"Not really," came his knee-jerk response.

Molly pursed her lips in a failed attempt to conceal a smile. "We're really going to do this?"

He couldn't help smirking in response. "It's just...I'm entertaining a friend. A very old friend."

"Oh?" Her curiosity was plainly obvious, but Molly didn't pry. Again Sherlock was grateful for her perceptive nature. "Well, I hope you enjoy his company."

Sherlock didn't have time to correct her. His phone beeped with an incoming text, drawing his attention back to the case at hand. "Have to dash."

"Be safe," she called out as he blew out the doors.

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**So sorry for the long wait for an update. Maybe we're getting somewhere, eh?**

**Reviews? Anyone? Anyone? Please?**


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